Alex Rider Sucks: 3
by Truth-Seeking Cretin
Summary: This is the third (and last) in a completely over-the-top series of parodies of Anthony Horowitz's populism and predictability. This should not be viewed by anyone.


Author's Note: Anthony Horowitz owns Alex Rider, not me. Thank God for that. As much as I used to like the Alex Rider books, they soon descended into a kiddie version of 007, and now every one of the booksreads the same. So when I was 14 or so, before I found parodied the first three books South-Park-style: 'Because of the content, it should not be viewed by anyone.' Gratuitous violence,strong sexual references, repeated strong drug references and four-letter words abound, you have now been warned. If you enjoy reading this one, then check out the other two.

Alex Rider's Third Adventure

Alex Rider stumbled into a high-class bank down the street from his flat, puked a mixture of Scotch whiskey (80 percent) and gastric juice (20 percent) through the mouth hole in his ski mask all over his shoes, pulled out an M60 heavy machine-gun from his trenchcoat and pounded sixteen heavy rounds into the two plainclothes security guards on duty.

"Gimme the fuckin money!" Alex bellowed drunkenly. "And don't you dare hit the alarm!" He then focused on the teller's window, only taking three seconds to manage it. He hadn't realised that she'd hit the alarm button as soon as he'd kicked open the door. He then kneeled and held down the trigger, slamming round after heavy round into the quadruple reinforced Plexiglas. He expired the entire fifty-round box, so he ejected it, tried and failed to put it in his pocket, dropped it onto the floor, bashed home a new one, and continued firing. The stock he'd attached to the back rammed into his shoulder repeatedly and, eventually, painfully. He expired the whole of the second ammo box, ejected it to the ground, whacked in another, and cocked it. He focused on the teller's window he'd been shooting at. There was a small spiderweb of cracks and even a small hole in the middle.

"That'll help this thing's job immensely." Alex slurred unsteadily, pulling out a LAW 36 disposable rocket launcher. He backed up, aimed with the crosshair at the window, and fired. In the blink of an eye it tore into the window, and the tinkle of shattered plastic shards striking each other told Alex that he'd succeeded. He dropped the now worthless LAW, holstered his M60 and pulled out his mini-Uzi. (Even in his extremely inebriated state Alex knew to only use weapons he could wield fully.) He hobbled over to the window in a zigzag pattern, then vaulted it and fell flat on his face.

"Why does this bank's central office look like a street?" he wondered. Then he realised he'd actually jumped through the wrong busted window and was actually on a street. He staggered through the door again, found the teller's window, jumped in, and walked down what seemed like a maze of corridors and offices to the vault. He slew a couple more guards with the mini-Uzi and then pulled two dozen prepared charges out from his pocket. These charges were made out of twelve pounds of plastic explosive each, set with 30º angles so as to take advantage of the Munroe effect. He set them into every slight crevice he could find in the vault door, then stuck detonators into all of them, connected det cord to the detonators, connected cable to all the det cord, dragged this det cord fifty feet along the hallway, and touched the two ends of the wires to three double-A batteries in series.

As the reader has probably sussed, 288 pounds of plastic explosive is far too much for opening even an armoured vault. It's even far too much for blowing up an entire three-storey bank. So this it did with very much ferocity. A mushroom cloud flared over the tremendous explosion which wrecked two buildings, structurally damaged two others and shattered windows of eleven more. Needless to say, all the money inside was vaporised. Alex, the lucky fuck, wasn't. But it still knocked him out for the next twenty hours. (Either that or he just fell into a drunken stupor.) When he woke up he found himself in MI6's main office, opposite Nomoneypenny as she sat at her desk.

"Jesus Christ, Alex," she said disdainfully. "It's stupid enough trying to rob a bank by yourself, even stupider is doing it drunk, but one of the most retarded things you could possibly do is using three hundred pounds of plastic explosive to destroy the vault door!"

"Did the robbery succeed?" Alex wondered, realising the only part of the robbery he could remember was the fact that the teller was wearing a tight shirt.

"Wha- NO!" she screamed. "You burned several hundreds of millions of pounds sterling! You were caught! If we hadn't stepped in, the relatives of the employees you killed would have kidnapped you and tortured you to death! If they hadn't, you'd have gotten several life sentences without parole! You achieved nothing and damn near lost everything! You utterly, utterly failed!"

"Shit," said Alex, making a mental note to be no more than tipsy when robbing anything. Then he realised that would require him not getting pissed out of his head and scrapped the idea.

He then realised his head was throbbing like a haemorrhoid.

"But I didn't summon you here because I wanted to discuss your criminal skill," said Nomoneypenny. "I have another mission for you."

"Does it involve getting pissed, a whorehouse, or drugs?" Alex asked half-heartedly.

"No," she said.

"Then fuck off, I have a hangover to nurture," he said. He got up to leave, all the blood rushed out of his head, and he fainted.

* * *

He came to sitting in the same chair. 

"My previous answer was incorrect." Nomoneypenny said. "Because if you do complete this mission, we'll let you get pissed and high at whorehouses as usual. But if you don't, we'll throw you into jail where you belong after your last mission, and you will probably become part of the whorehouse for the local queer sodomites so as to avoid their wrath."

"More like the queer sodomites would disband their whorehouse and worship me so as to avoid my wrath." Alex shot back.

"Either way you'll be stuck in jail without women, booze or drugs for the rest of your life. So listen up, shitmonger." she snarled. "The American CIA think there's some serious shit going on in this little island off the coast of Cuba, called Cayo Esqueleto, or Skeleton Key. The Americans want to send an agent onto the island. But the Cuban authorities have been very wary of American spies ever since the Cuban missile crisis. Since they're all retarded, they find it hard to sneak into Cuba or Skeleton Key. So what they want to do is send you with a male and female agent onto the island, so that way they won't be suspected because whoever heard of a fifteen-year-old spy?"

"You and me, for a start," said Alex.

"Shut the fuck up you idiot," she said in annoyance. "I meant anyone but us. Anyway, there is very little danger involved in the operation, from your perspective. All you do is sit there and wait for them to finish their scouting out of the area, then you go home with a good tan. No danger, so don't worry."

"Two things." said Alex. "Firstly, this story wouldn't stand a chance in hell of selling 10 copies if there truly was no danger."

"Stop thinking like that!" she screamed. "The readers might rightly realise that these stories are as predictable as the tides!"

"Not only are they predictable, but they're also exactly the same. And secondly, I would worry if there wasn't any danger. If there's danger, I can excuse my killing sprees and smash-and-grab raids, and get paid for it." said Alex.

"That's about as noble as knocking out a baby for its candy," said Nomoneypenny. "So, do you accept?" she said.

"Of course I do!" he exclaimed. "I rightly guessed that this story will be packed with danger, and I want to contribute to that! Just get me a couple of mini-AKs with eight clips and I'll go!"

"Mini-AKs?" she laughed. "You'd be lucky if you were allowed to carry a tazer into Cuba, let alone KGB weapons! And I personally wouldn't even give you a tazer!"

"I've proved that I'm very competent with weapons," he said.

"Competent, but not responsible," she said. "You would kill a pedestrian in the street if he called you a dickhead."

"And what's wrong with that?" he asked in annoyance.

She stared at him. "It's illegal."

"Bullshit! Since when?" he scoffed.

She stared at him very hard. Speaking very slowly, she said, "It's murder. It's been illegal for thousands of years."

"Not if it's provoked."

She backed away as best she could in a wheeled swivel chair. Jumping up suddenly, she ran over to the sofa, sat on it, and pressed a button on the underside of the armrest. She whooshed down into the floor, which closed behind her.

* * *

Twenty hours later Alex was in an international airport lounge in Florida. He was sitting with the two CIA agents who were to pretend they were Alex's parents, who were going as a family on a holiday to Skeleton Key. They were instructed to be incognito. Alex's 'dad' was reading the newspaper. Alex's 'mum' was reading some random woman's magasine. Alex was reading a porn mag he had shoplifted from the co-op ten feet away, drinking the security guard's Coke every time he turned around. 

A dozen armed security officers came up to them suddenly. "Could you three come with us please?" said the lead one. They obligingly walked with them to a secure room.

"Do you know what this is about?" asked one security officer.

"No," said Alex's parents together.

"Yes," said Alex. "You found the ceramic guns in my backpack and the disassembled guns in my suitcase that I shoddily disguised as a crafts set."

"Actually, we found that your son stole one of the security officer's security pass," he said, wide-eyed. "Now give us the pass!"

"Can't," Alex said. "I already sold it for a thousand dollars to Osama bin somebody."

"WHAT?" screamed one of them.

"I was joking," said Alex. "Here it is." He reached into his back pocket and held out his hand. They took it. For some highly implausible reason, they let him go.

* * *

Three hours later, Alex's plane was grounded due to 'mechanical problems'. The pilot, copilot and three stewardesses were in the cockpit furiously working at the problem. 

"Oooh, harder." the pilot moaned at a stewardess, staring down his length at her. "No, suck harder but slower... That's it, mmmm, yeah..."

"You're so strong, Jimmy!" another stewardess cooed at the copilot, bent over the chart computer, clawing the screen with her contracting hands as Jimmy increased the tempo. The third stewardess was snogging the copilot while getting herself off on the vibrate function of his mobile phone.

BOOM.

The door was kicked down with a loud bang. Three armed terrorists stood outside the door in balaclavas. One of them shook his head sadly.

"Only in America, the land of the pig-dog cocksuckers. Stop this now. Misters John and Tim, fly the Goddamn plane."

"I was wondering why the plane was taking so long to take off when the radio traffic showed the plane was in excellent condition." said the short terrorist, indicating a tiny handheld radio with earphones which looked like an MP3 player.

"Yes." agreed the third terrorist.

"Soghomon, you go down the left aisle all the way to the end to cover the rear emergency exit. Tampanus, stick to the front emergency exit, keeping on the right aisle. I will stay here and cover these bastards."

"Should we get dressed?" a stewardess asked in a tinny voice.

"Did we say you could!" Tampanus screamed.

"Sorry, Tampons." muttered the copilot. Fortunately for him, nobody heard it.

"I don't like movement I don't ask for." the leader said tersely. "All you are to do is get this plane up into the air. Radio the control tower and tell them that you are an impatient bastard and so will take off. Do not mention us." He turned to his comrades. "What in the name of of Allah's promiscuous pet unicorn are you two potted plants still doing here? Get moving!"

"Yes." agreed the third terrorist.

Together the two terrorists walked out of the cockpit. Soghomon turned left and started charging down the aisle at full pelt. Tampanus turned right, jumped out in front of the startled passengers and ran twenty feet down the aisle, shouting obscenities and pointing his two machine-pistols at everyone. Soghomon had run through five of the six curtains on the plane and for some reason the sixth had been torn down, giving him a clear view into the last part of the plane. He watched a man see him, get panicked, jump up and head for the emergency exit. So Soghomon knelt down, brought up his G3 assault rifle and started firing, on full auto as he was an inexperienced little retard. The man at the emergency exit was clearly brain damaged and somehow couldn't figure out how to open the door, despite the diagrams next to it, and the words 'Turn and pull' inscribed on the handle and in three other places on the door. As he yanked feverishly on the handle, the terrorist's bullets flew past him, killing sixteen other passengers. The terrorist heard the dead man's click and swore, going through his astonishingly quick 26-second reloading drill. The retard standing at the emergency exit still couldn't figure out how to open the door, and was now bracing one foot against the door so he could haul with more force on the lever. The terrorist finally remembered how to recock the weapon and put it back into the aim. He squeezed down the trigger on full auto again. These bullets slaughtered a further two passengers who'd only been wounded before, then the terrorist finally hit the man at the exit with his last 7.62 round. And I mean his last round. He only went in with two clips.

"Uh - this gun very dangerous!" the terrorist shouted unconvincingly. "I will bang bang next person who gets up!"

"You're out of bullets you fucking loony." Alex Rider scorned, taking out his Glock 17 and shooting him in the head. He stood up onto the right aisle, grimaced, and bent his neck sharply, with resulting earth-shaking cricks.

Tampanus noticed him. "Yes." he agreed and opened fire with both machine-pistols on full-auto, shrieking his head off.

"Fuck these people are retarded." Alex yawned. He aimed lazily and fired once more. The round lodged itself into Tampanus' larynx, instantly stopping his demented screaming and causing him to choke to death twenty seconds later. Meanwhile Alex walked towards the cockpit without a care in the world.

"What took you so long to act?" his fake dad roared.

"The nun sitting next to me was sucking me off." Alex answered, not breaking stride.

The leader stepped out of the cockpit, brandishing a remote control with one big, red button.

"Death to all gwailos!" he bellowed, not realising the irony and idiocy of this statement in light of his pale skin hue. He pushed the button. Inside the cargo hold a pathetically small bomb detonated, barely bigger or more dangerous than a hand grenade. There was a slight shiver which conducted throughout the aircraft. A single crack appeared in the carpet above the source of the explosion, and nothing more.

"That was supposed to kill us all?" Alex laughed. He suddenly found it hard to stop laughing. Things were swaying, and he felt euphoric. Through a haze he noticed everyone else was turning this way too. The wave of contentment and giggliness rippled through the plane with surprising rapidity. "What's happening?" he wondered aloud. Then he answered his own question. "My store of condensed ethanol in one of my suitcases must have ruptured. Everyone's getting drunk off the funes." Then he laughed for half an hour about how he accidentally said 'funes' instead of 'fumes' before picking himself off the floor and joined in with the game of strip-Twister that had sprung up in a place where two rows of seats used to reside.

In twenty minutes, the copilot giggled as he lifted the plane off the ground. The control tower wailed in his ear as he told them to fuck off and the head stewardess, wearing his hat, sucked him off. The pilot had the second stewardess pressed up against the wall. The third stewardess was erroneously under the impression that the microphone controlling the PA system was a penis and was getting off with it, producing an absolutely indescribable noise for the passengers. The copilot flew very responsibly for a drunk guy getting a blowjob, until the third stewardess realised she was fucking a mike, and so climbed onto his chair and spread her legs over his face for cunnilingus.

The rest of the aircraft was in a similarly anarchic state. A breakdancing guy was having knives thrown at him while he dodged with flair and style, several dozen people were fighting with identical drunken resolves, half the rest of the plane had passed out, and the other half were having a grand orgy in the back so enthusiastically that the plane was fishtailing in the air. Alex didn't get into the action immediately, however, he first located three cameras and used all of their rolls on taking pictures of his fake Mum and Dad humping lethargically outside the toilets. He then stashed the cameras, ran down to the forgotten duty-free carts, stole a crate of champagne, sprinted back, grabbed two nubile young ladies and dragged them to the nearest few empty seats.

* * *

Through pure luck the plane landed in Cayo Esqueleto. Nobody, least of all the very busy flying crew, were looking at where they were going. In fact, the copilot had resolved to fly a figure eight around Japan. It's no surprise he failed, seeing as he was simultaneously giving oral sex to one stewardess and receiving it from another, his only moments of comparitive clarity being when they stopped for a few moments to switch roles. Anyway he ran out of fuel over Cayo Esqueleto, and everyone would have died on impact had he not been flying at five feet over the ground. The plane screeched along the tarmac at well over a hundred miles an hour without the landing gear extended and bashed into the terminal. The passengers had begun sobering up, and so were sentient enough to climb out the shattered cockpit window into the terminal. 

"Anyway," Alex slurred, "I was hoping we could be friends."

"And why not?" the terrorist leader said amicably. "But I've never seen anyone fail to satisfy two women so effectively."

"The female orgasm's a fairy tale." Alex said, accidentally shouting. "If I can come in ten seconds, they should be able to too." Then he cracked up so badly he fell over howling because he said 'to too'. "That stewardess seemed to enjoy your company, though." he intoned once the terrorist, his fake Mum and his fake Dad had helped him up.

"I got her phone number." the terrorist giggled.

"Just one more go, big boy." gushed a naked, attractive stewardess as she ran up to the terrorist.

"Fine." he grinned stupidly. "What's the area code for your Montana residence again?"

"That was the best trip ever." concluded Alex.

* * *

"That was the worst trip ever!" stormed their Cuban contact in his office three hours later. "You're lucky the Cuban customs agents were on strike yesterday! Otherwise you would all be in six pieces at a pig farm!" 

"They don't raise pigs in Cuba," Alex pointed out.

"I don't care!" he screamed. "You have to use subtlety! Do you know what that means?"

"Is it a kind of gun?" asked Alex hopefully.

"NO!" he howled. "It means not being obvious! So don't be-"

"I don't care," said Alex. "I'm going to buy me some blunts. Want to come?"

"NO!" he hollered, turning every head for fifty metres, including the heads of two people that had four doors and a wall separating them from him. "YOU'VE NEVER GONE UNNOTICED IN YOUR LIFE, HAVE YOU? I'VE BEEN DOING IT FOR A LONG TIME, AND I'M EXCELLENT AT IT!" He looked out the window and realised he was the centre of attention. He also noticed that Alex had already disappeared out the door.

* * *

Alex was sitting at an outdoor restaraunt some ten hours later, waiting for the man who'd be boating him out to their target facility. He'd asked his fake parents if they could buy him a keg of beer for the boat trip to relieve his boredom. They'd refused before he was even a quarter of the way through the request, so Alex had attempted to blackmail them by showing them the photos of their X-rated romp. They then sold the photos to a nearby tramp as wanking material and earned a fair amount of money. Then a Cuban porn king chanced to see one of the better action photos and offered the pair a lucrative contract on the spot for a ten-part made-for-TV 'documentary' on promiscuity. They declined until they saw the pay was some seven times more than what the CIA was paying them, with far more reliable pay, and snapped it up joyfully. When he'd relayed this unfortunate development through the Cuban contact to Nomoneypenny, she'd instructed him to do their jobs for them: search for nuclear weapons in the Casa de Oro using a Geiger counter. So there Alex was, drinking only two pints of vodka so as to keep a clear head, scanning the beach next to the wharf in front of him. 

A man walked from the beach up to Alex. "You are Alex, are you not?" he asked shortly.

"Yeah." Alex replied. "But where's your boat? I don't see any black dinghies on the beach." Just then a huge rusty trawler, which had been stationary all evening, suddenly started moving, revealing a black dinghy behind it, just about visible against the whiskey-brown sands of the beach. "Oh, never mind, I see it now."

"What the fuck are you on about, black dinghies?" the man snorted. "I wouldn't own a boat as tiny-assed as that! And anyway a dinghy would sink if you tried to put all that scuba-diving equipment on board! Nah, my boat's that one over there."

Alex followed his pointing finger. "All I see is the dinghy and that shitty old rust bucket next to it."

"Yeah, that rust bucket's my boat." the man said coldly.

"We asked for a stealth approach!" Alex screamed. "How do you sneak up on a place with underwater seismic mines next to it in a twenty-thousand-ton hunk of shit!"

"Mines?" the man demanded, startled. "Fuck this job!" He legged it off down the beach.

"You ugly sack of cocks!" Alex bellowed after him. He unfolded his AK-47 and prepared to bust his way into the compound a mile down the beach.

* * *

Ten minutes later Alex turned around and pelted away from the compound as six guards fired at him from the battlements with PS-G1s at a range of half a click, before even seeing his assault rifle. These were their exact orders, as the owner of the palace was so damn paranoid.

* * *

This is the reason why four hours later one of the tactical missiles Alex was given in the last mission hammered into the bedroom window of the suspected terrorist owner of the Casa de Oro and detonated its several megatons of destructive force; Alex couldn't be bothered to try and break into the place after his first two attempts failed, so instead he disintegrated the entire of Cuba from a safe distance back in England. 

Had Nomoneypenny been able to prove anything, she would have made his head decorate the top of a spear in her office. As it was she couldn't prove anything, and so was forced to keep him on as an operative. The Americans could prove everything, and therefore secretly gave Alex a vast bonus for getting rid of their Commie neighbours. Plus Nomoneypenny paid him three more cruise missiles for doing the job.


End file.
